Breaking down.. telling lies

my brown sneakers and me, sitting on the grass, waiting for a ride - any ride: we're not fussy. OKay YES it IS a photoblog.. well for this month anyway.. I'm NaNoWrImOing behind the scenes and it's hard enough getting words out for *that* let alone over here. Well, okay, that's not strictly true - I have warehouses *full* of elves making cheap plastic knock-offs - fridge-magnet quality verbage - fear not i have cornered the market we will have words 4 EVA. No, no stay.. it's mostly pictures this month.. honest! It's funny, you know - since adding that "old jam" link thingie [below each post], I click on it and read the past and think.. oh man, that's quite good you know, nicely written, go me.. oh wait.. i don't have rabbits.. oh of course it's good, it's JJ. I had a meeting this morning which went well. I wanted to draw my trip home, but I think if I just pull a lot of wall from a ball of yarn then throw it on the floor you might get an idea of the path I took. I seemed to meander home in the most inefficient - no.. the wrongest ways possible. If there was a turn to take, I'd take the wrong one every.single.time. Simon was telling me in the car this morning about his friend who picked the first three horses in the Melbourne Cup and won the $1500 trimester *knee slap* oh gosh. so funny. ahhh. PS: phone call from Rosie who asked for my address.. i asked where she was.. she said the post office.. i said "rosie are you posting me something?" and she said "NO" then she didn't post it.
Read More

Regime de Vivre

by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester I rise at eleven, I dine about two, I get drunk before seven; and the next thing I do, I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap, I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap. Then we quarrel and scold, 'till I fall fast asleep, When the bitch, growing bold, to my pocket does creep; Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront, At once she bereaves me of money and cunt. If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk, What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk! I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage, And missing my whore, I bugger my page. Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men, And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again.
Read More